


the thing with feathers

by badbrains



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene, Nogitsune, POV Peter Hale, an interaction i think 3b could have definitely benefitted from
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29596161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badbrains/pseuds/badbrains
Summary: Peter knows that, if it comes down to it, no one will kill Stiles.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 55





	the thing with feathers

**Author's Note:**

> remember when i said i was done with ficlets for a while. yea i lied. sorry. 
> 
> i think there should have been way more interaction between peter and stiles in 3b. like. just because of the way peter can sort of relate to stiles' situation with the nogitsune due to how he was in s1. so, in my mind, this takes place after stiles has been in eichen and feels like there is no hope as the nogitsune sort of swallows him whole, so to speak. peter, in my opinion, is the only person who would have killed stiles had it needed to be done. which is why i started thinking about this. 
> 
> thank you to raw for talking with me about this whole shebang and helping me sort some things out. i love u bro
> 
> title is referencing the iconic _'hope' is the thing with feathers_ by none other than miss emily dickinson herself 
> 
> no beta or anything cause i do not care <3

Peter knows that, if it comes down to it, no one will kill Stiles. 

He makes a mental note. The Sheriff would not do it, for reasons so obvious Peter chooses not to dwell on them. Scott has too much of a savior complex to skew his moral compass in the opposite direction, even for a moment. The newly discovered True Alpha would not be able to snuff his sidekick, even if it were for the good of the pack. One of those trolley situations, allow the train to run over one person or allow it to run over a group of fucked up teenagers. Scott would be impervious to the switch, it seems. Chris would consider it, with all of his macho-man posturing bullshit, but in the end, Peter doesn’t think he would be able kill Stiles. Not in good-conscience. Not even to satiate his apparent hunger for revenge or whatever it is he aims to sate. He may have no trouble killing a Nogistune, but they all know this is not just a Nogitsune. Not anymore. This, by association, removes Allison from the mix as well. No Allison subsequently means no Isaac. Isaac is not a good candidate for extermination anyway, always looking two seconds from blowing away in a strong breeze. Which leaves Derek. Poor, poor Derek, always faced with killing the ones he loves. His nephew would not do it. Would not be able to stomach it. He still carries so much guilt for a fire he didn’t start, it would be asinine to throw Stiles into the mix, to ruin his _monumental_ progress. Ha. 

So, Peter is ready - expects it, even - when Stiles stumbles to the loft, his weak knock sounding throughout the empty space, amplified by the fact that it is nearing three in the morning. Peter is always up late these days, sitting idle at the dining table or curled on the couch in the odd hours. He enjoys envisioning ways to kill Lydia, just fantasies, really. How to make it hurt most, how to strike where she is weakest. She is keeping secrets, and after all, secrets don’t make friends. But, he knew Stiles would be here, at some point. So, when he slides the door open, he tries not to seem too smug. With the look Stiles pins him with, squinted eyes enveloped by dark circles, his mouth downturned to make his entire expression sour, Peter guesses he did not succeed. He smirks anyway. 

“Stiles. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The kid frowns. “Could you not be a dick, just for, like, ten seconds.”

Peter smiles to himself when Stiles sidesteps him to enter the loft, tugging at his hair and breathing shakily. He says, “Fine. But only ten seconds.”

He turns to face Stiles, crosses his arms over his chest while the teen paces, mumbling to himself. Peter knows enough about changing forms, becoming a monster and killing for the hell of it. He knows enough about it to know that Stiles is himself right now. Or, at least, he is whatever is left. 

The thing Peter finds most frustrating about Derek’s happy-go-lucky amalgamation of tortured youth, is the fact that they do not know when to let sleeping dogs lie. They have this air of childish naivete that he thinks should have been smothered by all the trauma. Stiles is like a zoo animal, of sorts. They keep pressing their fingers through the bars, poking sticks and throwing peanuts. Pretty soon, they’re going to get their fingers bitten off. But, none of them have the goddamn brain cells to think that far ahead. The only one of them who did is not currently in his right mind. Now they’re back to square one. 

The biggest factor they are failing to consider, in all of this, is the fact that Stiles has been capable of this and more. Since the beginning. He is smart, smarter than them all. And he is resourceful, he knows how to analyze situations critically rather than acting on half-formed instinctive impulses like their Alpha loves to showcase. You know what they say about hindsight. He knew, in that parking garage, that Stiles had potential that transcended beyond anything the rest of the pack had to offer. He wishes, sometimes, that it had been Stiles instead of Scott. 

Stiles looks at him, wide-eyed and frantic. “I need a favor.” 

Peter scoffs. “A favor,” he echoes. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Stiles, but you are in no position to be soliciting favors.” 

“Can you just—” he wrings his hands, they’re shaking. “I don’t even know if I am here. Really.”

He doesn’t feel like playing parent, right now. Stiles did not come here for comfort, so Peter won’t tire himself by bending over backwards. He has never been too good at the family thing. 

He just sighs. “What kind of favor?” 

Stiles chews his lip, the skin there already cracked and red. He smooths his tongue over it and sniffs, following it up by swiping the back of his hand across his nose so he doesn’t have to meet Peter’s eyes. “When I—” he blows out a trembling breath. “When I went to Eichen House. I told Scott,” he huffs a delirious laugh, tilting his head to the ceiling. “ _I told Scott_ , if he could not find anything, if they couldn’t find out how to deal with this,” his throat dips on a hard swallow, “deal with _me_ ,” he corrects, “then I never wanted to be let out.” His lips mould into a shaky smile when he looks up at Peter. “Well, I’m out. And they still don’t know what to do. So.” 

Peter frowns, already bored of the poor-me charade. Pity never suited Stiles, anyway. He raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t hear you ask for a favor anywhere in that. Did you just come here to waste my time?”

“You killed Laura,” he says, point-blank. 

Peter blinks. Straight to the point, then. “Are we still stuck on that?”

Stiles waves a hand, dismissing Peter. “I’m just - you killed Laura. So, you could—” he purses his lips and sighs out through his nose. “So, you could kill me. If you had to.”

“You came here to ask me to kill you?”

He throws his hands up in exasperation. It makes Peter want to smile. “Yes. That’s what I said.”

Peter holds a hand up, pops his claws out to hear how Stiles’ pulse picks up, how his throat sounds when he gulps. “Right now?”

Stiles gives him an unimpressed look and Peter sheathes his claws. Stiles smells more like Stiles now, the panic ebbing, mellowing out until it smells like pine needles and warm water and sheared grass. Peter relaxes, slightly, infinitely more comfortable with this version of Stiles. 

“Does Scott know you’re here?” Stiles stays quiet. “Derek?” Nothing.

Peter chuckles. “Of course. No one knows you are here, what you are asking me to do. So, what, I just have to kill you if you can’t be fixed? You know, it is so tiresome being the bad guy.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Peter shrugs. “It isn’t.”

Something about how Stiles is standing here, admitting defeat so easily, angers something within him. Stiles is not supposed to lie down and bare his belly. He is supposed to fight until he cannot fight anymore. Walk when he cannot run, crawl when he cannot walk, and die only when he has no other choice. This is not his last resort. Peter bristles a little. “When did you become so defeatist?”

Stiles gives a half-hearted dip of his shoulder. “When I stopped being me.”

Peter mocks him, moving his shoulders in an exaggerated mimicry. “If I had bitten you, I would be so pissed right now. I would just like to say that.”

The kid grins, a small, barely-there tug of his lips. “Good thing you didn’t bite me, then.”

Peter purses his lips and gives him a once-over. “I know why you asked me. And I respect you enough to do it if I must.”

Stiles just looks at him. 

“I wouldn’t enjoy it, though. I know you all think me to be this,” he waves a hand, “this terrible, monstrous villain who kicks puppies and eats babies. But, I didn’t know I killed Laura. Not really, not until after. I would not be satisfied knowing you died because of me. People like you aren’t supposed to die at seventeen, Stiles.”

He feels like he said what he needed to say. Stiles doesn’t seem to have any other requests. He slides the front door open, indicating to Stiles that he can leave. “We are going to find a way to fix you, you know. All of our victories are buzzer-beaters.” When Stiles steps over the threshold, Peter reiterates, “But, you know I will. If it comes to you or the pack, you know I am not one to be the optimist.”

Stiles gives him a curt nod. “Why do you think I came here?”

Before he makes it all the way down the hall, Peter calls, “Stiles.” The teen turns to him, eyebrows lifted up. “What is Lydia most afraid of?”

Stiles gives him a loaded look, just says, “What do you think?”

Peter can’t fight off the smile that curls at his lips while he slides the door shut, locking it. 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> be my friend on [tumblr](https://iminsatiable.tumblr.com/)


End file.
